


Silk and Strangulation

by Tierfal



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Canon, Kink, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-31
Updated: 2010-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within the everybody-knows-it Master-as-companion S3 AU, the Master and the Doctor have some fun. With a tie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk and Strangulation

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "erotic asphyxiation." 'NUFF SED.

"Tighter," the Doctor whispers.

The Master frowns, and his face veers in and out of focus. "You've really lost it this t—"

"_Tighter_."

The Master rolls his eyes, but he obliges, pulling harder on the silk tie that encircles the Doctor's neck. For all his complaints—or are they cautions?—the Master is good at this. He's good in general, in his way. He's straddling the Doctor's hips, the jumpseat creaking under their combined weight, and the Doctor's fingertips tremble as he tries to suck in a deep breath and gets a trickle; tries to arch his back against the tremor that races up it like lightning, white and forked and sizzling.

"And people," the Master murmurs, dragging on the loose ends, shrinking the knot, mouthing at the Doctor's jaw, "think _I'm_ insane."

_You are_, the Doctor tries to say, and his constricted throat scrapes out, "_Yes_."

He feels the Master's smirk curl against the skin beneath his ear, feels the Master's right hand close and tug at the tie as the left trails down his chest, down his stomach, over his hip. "You and your reputation are a bit at odds."

_Perhaps that's because said 'reputation' is imposed on me without regard to the sheer complexity of nine hundred years of personal histo—_

The Master shifts, grinding against him, hard but so slowly; _painstakingly_ slow, like he's trying to prove they have forever, and they'll never get bored.

The Master's lips part in a leisurely grin, and he nips at the Doctor's neck above the band of silk; the blood vessels are practically enflamed; the Doctor's head is starting to float as he suppresses his body's urgent suggestions that he implement the respiratory bypass, that he save himself. The Doctor is tired of saving people, himself included.

So light—part of him wants to try to anchor his mind, try to pin himself back down in the TARDIS, in the moment, in the truth, but most of him just shudders and shakes at the delicate precision of the Master's hands, at the maddening pinch of the next deliberate bite. The Master knows him, knows him, knows him every way it's possible to know; knows his nooks and crannies and secrets and lines; knows his shadows and the swell of glacial ice beneath the surface others see.

And the Master is still here. The Master knows what he actually is, and the Master doesn't stop touching, doesn't stop twisting the tail of silk, doesn't stop pushing clothing aside as the Doctor's muscles clench against the evaporating-disintegrating weightlessness of his brain; and it's beautiful not to think and not to be expected to.

The Master's thumb grazes the inside of his thigh, and his hips jerk, and he's dizzy with it, intoxicated, stars bursting in the unattainable air before his eyes; black and gold and white, which isn't right, since stars are—stars go—supernovas—

Something like dark smoke coils around his vision, narrowing sight to a telescope view of TARDIS ceiling, of coral struts that look like wavering towers before they disappear into the dark; he looks at the Master, all gold-bright star-eyes and wet red mouth, no forgiveness, all acceptance; no warmth, all searing heat.

And he doesn't think he has the strength to rise to that, to twist against the tie and the deprivation and catch the Master's lip, bite down hard, taste sharp iron that sings in time with the last fading pulse that makes it to his brain.

The Master makes a small noise of surprise and thick delight, and then the Doctor passes out.

  


—

  
He wakes up sprawled on the jumpseat with a monumental headache, dressed in nothing but his trousers and his much-loosened, very wrinkled tie.

"Ow," he says. He thinks about it, which hurts, and then adds, "Fuck."

"Not even," the Master says, leaning against the console, pretending to admire his fingernails. "And good heavens, watch your language."

"Shut the fuck up," the Doctor mutters, rubbing at his throat and attempting to stand.

The TARDIS grate rushes up to meet him and bids a fond hello to his forehead.

"Ow," he says. "_Fuck_."

The Master sighs deeply and manhandles him into both arms despite a flood of half-coherent protests. Grunting and not-too-accidentally banging the Doctor's bare feet against the doorframe, the Master manages to carry him to his bed.

"Tomorrow night," the Master says, "you are going to _bathe_ in chocolate syrup."

The Doctor says something unprintable in Gallifreyan, and the Master laughs, removes his tie, and pets his hair until he falls asleep.


End file.
